To Have Loved
by SadArticle
Summary: Tragedy tests courage, love and friendship at Blakeney Manor. Warning: character death. Constructive criticism always welcome and appreciated.
1. Fragments

_To Have Loved_

**Warning: this story is centred upon the death of a character; not a central character, fear not, but one of the Baroness' creations nonetheless. It is merely a study of unexpected loss and how it affects those who are left behind, so any readers put out by the notion may feel free to return to the 'canon' universe as soon as they finish! With thanks to Kate, Venerated Objective Reader and like-minded devotee of the books.**

_On the Stairs_

To her wide, aching eyes the house looked unchanged, and it should have been easy to think, to breathe, to act as normal. But her mind would not let her forget, and everywhere she looked there now lurked a sinister meaning – the great vases of hothouse flowers placed throughout the rooms were masking another, bitter scent in the air, the candles in the shimmering chandeliers and sconces were guttering and would soon be extinguished, and the clusters of drinking glasses abandoned by idle or distracted hands appeared as relics of departed life.

It was all too much. Without knowing that she intended to move, or where she would go to, Marguerite suddenly turned on the stair, where she had been about to ascend to her private chambers, and fled across the great hall towards the door. When the long train of her gown seemed to hold her back, she reached behind her to gather up the yards of silver brocaded silk, her step faltering but never pausing. The entrance was empty of servants, but she managed to unbolt the ponderous door with her free hand and, hurling it open, raced out into the chill darkness. The thin leather soles of her slippers offered no protection against the rutted gravel of the path, but she barely felt the ground as she ran blindly towards the river at the rear of the house. She hurried on, moving in and out of the columns of welcoming, yellow light cast by the windows upon the floor; reverse shadows which vaguely recalled to her the brilliantly decorated reception rooms within – and what had happened there.

Reaching the first corner, Marguerite slipped on the loose stones and fell, dropping her skirts in time to save her knees but grazing her hands and losing a shoe. Struggling to her feet, she glanced at her tingling palms, and was surprised to see her spread fingers appear only as dim shapes against the darkness. Blinking, and then pressing the backs of her wrists beneath her eyes, Marguerite released the tears that had been blinding her vision, but she would not let go of her heart just yet. Stumbling on, she followed the east wing of the manor house to the terrace.

_A Closed Door_

As Percy stood on the landing, still facing the door to the main guest suite, he noted the same silence that had shaken Marguerite barely moments earlier. It was not the restful, familiar quiet of a house settling in the night, or even the peaceful contrast of low voices and softly ticking clocks after the animation of a party, but merely the negative of what had been before; a hollow absence.

A terrible sound suddenly shattered the stillness, and Percy found himself praying for a return to that aching void – he could not bear the stifled cries that came instead, the pain of his best friend's grief. It felt wrong to leave Andrew alone at this time – for he was now truly alone – but there was nothing to be done in that room until the door opened again to invite a friend's support. Perhaps that would come in an hour or two, or in the morning, but it was for Andrew to open the door. Percy could make the first practical arrangements, and he would, but he had neither the words nor the strength to force his friend into confronting what had happened this night. It barely seemed real to him.

Still dressed in his exquisite finery, Percy lowered himself against the banister to sit on the floor, resting his arms on his knees. He could not even begin to imagine how Andrew must be feeling at this time, if indeed he could feel at all – should the roles be reversed and he were to lose Marguerite ... But empathy was beyond him. He did not know, and would not even consider, what it would be like to start the evening with everything to live for, only to have to wait for it to end when there was nothing left of that dream. A beautiful wife, waiting patiently for years to claim her husband's full devotion and the joy of his safe return entirely as her own; the promise of a family; all that youth and good health and miraculous fortune could bestow upon the most deserving of men – naught but a fragile illusion in a golden frame, shattered in one incredible moment.

"Suzanne ..." Andrew's tear-choked voice, muffled behind the door, tore at Percy's heart. What if their roles _were_ reversed? Would Andrew sit, numb and hesitant for the first time, on the other side of a closed door, whilst a lifetime friend and loyal ally crumbled in on himself beside the still, cold form of his beloved? Had Andrew ever left him to suffer alone throughout their long career together as the heart and mind of the League?

Percy silently berated himself for his own show of weakness, but at the same time he understood that Andrew was facing the hardest, most extreme challenge in his life, and that nothing could have prepared any of them – Andrew, Marguerite, himself – for this new test of courage and will. Defying the Revolutionary guard, baiting Chauvelin, risking their lives for the thrill of the chase and the reward of sparing another life from the blade of the guillotine – three years of selfless yet satisfying adventures did not fortify a man against the shock of watching his best friend's soul wink out like a candle. And what right did he have to intrude upon Andrew's farewell to his wife, merely to appease his own conscience? As Percy had silently backed out of the room, Andrew had remained on his knees beside the bed, his hands grasping Suzanne's fingers, his face buried in her skirts. That man did not know that others felt his loss, or were waiting with him to wake fully from the shock; such as Marguerite, who had started trembling from head to foot, but had not as yet –

Percy suddenly stiffened, turning his head sharply to one side to listen down the stairs behind him. Scrambling to his feet, he swung around the corner of the banister, gripping the newel post, and took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor.

_The Rose Arbour_

The rose arbour was damp and dreary, but Marguerite sank onto the sheltered bench with a gasp of relief. As her rapid breathing evened out, she became aware of the distant sighing of the river, stifled by the heavy mist, and of the steady dripping of the leaves and branches all around her; she had never come to the arbour so late on a miserable night like this, but still the sounds were familiar and soothing. Heavy drops of rainwater fell intermittently from the boughs above her head, splashing onto her bare arms and trickling down her neck from her hair, but an involuntary shiver was the only reaction she gave. Her eyes stared blankly into the distance, their usual beauty lost in the shadows.

The image that stayed with her was of Suzanne's gown as she collapsed, her pooling skirts collecting like rose petals as she sank gracefully lower and lower towards the floor. As she remembered it now, it seemed as if Suzanne had fainted in slow motion, supported by the air until Percy's lightning reflexes had saved her from falling completely, but it had all happened in a blink of the eye – her friend had not even complained of feeling dizzy.

_They had been talking of France and when, if ever, it would be safe to return there; Suzanne had confessed a longing to visit the countryside outside Paris where her family had owned a chateau. She had been asked, by a gentleman who was friendlier with the wine than with the people around him, if she now regarded England as her home or if she still considered herself as a Frenchwoman – but she had not heeded the barb in his question, only answering with honesty and happiness: "My husband and my family are my home, and they are here." Marguerite had met her friend's proud smile and then turned her glittering gaze to Percy, stood beside Suzanne at the centre of the little group before the great fireplace, and reaffirmed her own promise with her eyes. _

_How true Suzanne's words were – they had both forged new bonds and pledged fidelity to another, but it was not merely an exchange of nationalities. Suzanne's heart had belonged to her parents in Paris, just as Marguerite had only ever worshipped her brother before meeting Sir Percy, and now they were wives who had challenged pride and supported selfless heroism at cost of their own hearts to stand beside their husbands. Only the other wives in the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and then perhaps not to the same degree, could understand the sacrifice and resolution that Marguerite and Suzanne had already given for their loves, and this private knowledge made their friendship even stronger. It need not even be said that Sir Andrew would lay down his life for Blakeney, and for Marguerite through his good friend and chief; Marguerite and Suzanne shared the same enduring alliance – the four were bound together through old associations and new trials, and there seemed to be only life's rewards ahead of them now that the men had returned and the League was disbanded._

_Suzanne's gaze drifted naturally in the direction of Sir Andrew, who had earlier excused himself to talk with Sir William Vavasour, a family friend from the north. Marguerite watched as the young man glanced up and sought his wife's eyes, aware of her notice even as they stood divided by the width of the ball room. _

"_Should I throw myself into the breach and rescue him for you, Lady Ffoulkes?" Percy whispered, bowing his great height to catch her ear._

_Suzanne laughed. "Sir William is an old friend of Andrew's family, I am sure my husband does not suffer!"_

"_I also know Sir William, and I warrant Ffoulkes is starting to feel the pinch," Percy replied. "And what man would not rather stand and gaze upon his wife, instead of the drawn features of a doctor from the provincial north?"_

"_Sir Andrew can see Suzanne well enough from where he stands," Marguerite countered, reaching out a delicate hand to take her husband's arm. "You need not concern yourself, sir."_

And in the midst of this playful, inconsequential chatter, Suzanne had been slowly fading. Dwelling upon that vivid memory, Marguerite's heart sank within her as she replayed those last moments – had there been a visible change come over her friend? She tried to recapture Suzanne's small face as it was happening in her mind's eye, but could only see the usual tumble of curls and deep brown study of those same warm features she had known since childhood. And she had been looking at Percy, and Sir Andrew, and then at Percy again – had she even noticed Suzanne, beyond her own amusement at the Ffoulkes' tireless devotion? No, that was unnecessarily harsh; there had been no cause for worry, no signal of the implausible finale of that evening, and only a morbid divination could have caused her to devote more attention than usual to such a constant and familiar presence as Suzanne within her own home. It was sudden, unexpected, and swift; God's will, or a cruel twist of fate – all the usual epithets for a young life lost, but beyond comprehension on such an intimate level.

Percy had turned his face to glance at Suzanne, offering a rueful smile for his light words, and Marguerite, her eyes still on her husband in what returned to her now as an impolite display of her own indulgence, was taken aback by the flash of alarm that had locked his features. That clear image of Percy's suddenly alert blue eyes, his parted lips snapped shut and the set of his jaw, had then blurred into the confusion of events and reactions following on from his instinctive save of Suzanne's unconscious form – an instant or an age might have passed without notice, all save those billowing folds of a pale rose-coloured gown gathering on the floor at her feet.

_The Hall_

"Benyon, where is Lady Blakeney?" Percy demanded, surprising the butler as he entered the hall from the library.

"I – I believe her ladyship was retiring to her chambers, sir," the older man replied softly, the slight catch in his throat betraying unprofessional but understandable distress after the swift change in mood and focus of the evening.

"I've just come from upstairs, she's not there," Percy told him.

"I am afraid I must have missed Lady Blakeney, sir, as I was showing the physician – Sir William – to the library," Benyon answered. "Shall I ask in the kitchen if –" But there was no need to continue as his master was no longer listening, Sir Percy having turned his tired, serious face towards the front door.

"Has anybody been here, Benyon?" he asked, glancing with a frown from the entrance to the passage beyond where Benyon stood neatly in the hallway.

"No, sir," the butler told him, sure of the answer but not of the question. Then he observed a sudden lifting of his master's great height, his shoulders squaring as he straightened out his spine, and Benyon recognised the signs at once: Sir Percy had found a purpose to distract his own thoughts and suffering, a deed to channel unspoken words and feelings.

Turning on his heel, Percy marched up to the unobtrusive figure of his butler and then carried straight on past him. "Thank you, Benyon," he fired back, before halting to add: "If Sir Andrew should – I will only be at the rose arbour, beside the river.

"Yes, sir!" Benyon called. "Shall I get you cloak?"

"Not needed," Percy dismissed him, as he continued towards the rear of the manor house. "And make sure that door is closed and bolted!"

Benyon, ready to perform whatever bidding his poor master might ask of him, started automatically towards the entrance. Drawing nearer, he noticed belatedly that the door was stood ajar, closed but for the latch, and he wondered who might have left it so on a night like this.

_The Riverbank_

_How had he known? She had not cried out, nor grimaced in pain, and she would never have appealed to him for assistance anyway, always believing that she owed him too much as it was. But her bright eyes had suddenly lost their glitter, and a grey veil had fallen over the healthy blush of her complexion. Suzanne did not struggle to protect her dignity in a room full of people, did not turn her dull eyes to Percy or Marguerite, in fact barely moved at all – until her knees failed her and suddenly she was falling, tumbling to the ground as if every muscle in her body had relaxed at once_

_Percy had thrown out an arm in time to grip her waist and pull her to him, her limp form bending backwards until he had to drop to the floor with her, supporting her head against his chest and then his shoulder. His ears registered the continued murmur of conversation in the room – few people had noticed Suzanne yet – as his eyes took in the fading life of the woman in his arms. And then Marguerite was on her knees beside him – he could hear the rustle of her gown, smell her perfume, hear her taking sharp, shallow breaths as she looked on – and taking up one of her friend's limp hands in her own._

"_Suzette!" she cried, and a curious hush rippled out across the room. "Percy, lift her! Bring her to a chair beside the fire, her fingers are cold!" his wife bid him._

_Suzanne's eyes were still beneath half-closed lids._

"_Ffoulkes!"Percy shouted, barely noticing as his other guestsbegan to driftin around themHe heard a tremble in his voice, and had to clear his throat. "Andrew, quickly!"_

_As he arranged his arms around Suzanne to carry her, Percy feared the worst – when he bowed his face close to hers, the only breathing he could hear was the gulping half-sobs of his wife from beside him; Suzanne's rouged lips were parted, her complexion grey and misted with perspiration, and she sank heavily in his grasp as he struggled to his feet. But Ffoulkes' immediate arrival at his side allowed him to battle reason with compassion, and he tried to cheat his mind with his heart for a while longer. Parting the groups of onlookers, friends and associates who had been standing close by when Marguerite had called out, Andrew's firmstride faltered as he reached the fireplace._

"_Suzanne?" hecalled his wife's name, glancing from her stricken figure to his best friend. "What happened Has she fainted? Suzanne!"_

_Percy gently set his burden down on a chaise longue beside the fire, allowing her head to roll slowly onto the seat as he slipped his arm free. The hand that Marguerite had held now hungnerveless over the edge of the chair, and Percy returned it to her side before turning to face his friend._

"_It's my fault," Andrew told himself as he sidestepped Percy to kneel beside Suzanne. "She said she felt tired this morning, and I should have listened." He reached for his wife's fingers, pressing them to his lips. "Suzanne, chérie, wake up, I shall take you home."_

_Whispers were beginning to build upon the nervous rustle of ladies' gowns and the shifting step of awkward feet, and though their comments were inaudible, still Percy could imagine the balance of concern and curiosity. To those who knew and cared for Suzanne, the situation was bewildering, fraught with sudden emotion and the natural impulse to act; for mere acquaintances of the charming French wife of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, all that was left to indulge in was the drama of the moment and the future prospect of discussing with friends this latest rout of Lady Blakeney's_

_When Percy raised his heavy lidsto look around him, he saw that Marguerite was clutching her hands together so tightly that her arms trembled, and also that Sir William Vavasourwas stood at his elbow. He met the doctor's dark, calm eyes._

"_Ffoulkes, perhaps you had better take Suzanne to a cooler room,"suggested Sir William, who had studied medicine to better tend his ailing older brother. _

_Percy stepped forwards and gave his friend's shoulder a reassuring pressWhen Andrew didn't respond, Marguerite moved stiffly to her husband's side and placed her hand upon his, her trembling fingers almost as cold as Suzanne's._

All he knew was that she had fled the house, breaking free of their home together and the painful memories it now held; her sanctuary could be one of many places within the grounds. The urgency of her departure suggested that she would not have taken the time or thought to wrap herself in a cloak, nor change from her light kidskin shoes, but Percy knew that she would be unheeding of any physical discomfort now. Outside on the terrace, with the damp air in soothing contrast to the close atmosphere of the rooms that he too had now deserted, Percy thought for a brief moment and then started off towards the river.

The chestnut alley and the stone folly were too far away, if it was really only the house she was trying to escape; the greenhouses too stifling and far from private; the summer house only four more walls and a roof in which to trap her. There was only one possible place where Marguerite could go that was at once relatively sheltered and not bound with an image of Suzanne and their friendship: the rose arbour fronting onto the river that belonged solely to husband and wife, a small corner of their once unpredictable and too public life together where they could always be alone. Now that their days were free and undemanding, he and Marguerite still occasionally sought the seclusion and selfish peace of its fragrant boughs in the summer months, but there would only be dripping branches and the chill, creeping mist from the river to greet them tonight.

"Margot?" Percy called, as he approached the dark mass of the small copse which sheltered the trellising. The arbour was set deep within the trees, disguising its presence from any traffic on the river as well as the house, and Percy could not immediately see or hear any movement from inside. "Margot, are you here?"

"Percy?" She appeared at the edge of the trees, a ghostly vision in her silver gown. Her small face was visible in relief against the gloom, with her haunted eyes wide and dark in the perfect oval of her countenance. She raised a long, slender arm to him, and he covered the ground between them with a determined stride.

"My love," he sighed into her hair, tasting the coppery scent of her damp curls as he breathed in her familiar presence. Her whole graceful body was shivering beneath his touch. "You're cold. I should have brought something for you, why didn't I think?"

She nestled in his embrace, folding her bare arms up between them, and settled her forehead against his shoulder. "It's of little matter. I didn't notice that I was cold until you came."

"Please allow me, dear heart," he told her, releasing her to strip quickly out of his silk-lined coat. Without protest, she merely stood waiting for him to drape its warm folds about her trembling shoulders, and only lowered her crossed arms when he held it open for her to slip into.

"You must have stepped out a mere moment before I came downstairs," he explained, aware of her raw eyes and quivering jaw before she leaned into him again, hiding her face against his neck where she always fit so neatly; "or you would not have been out here alone."

"I'm not alone now," she replied wearily, her voice muffled by the linen and lace at his throat. Percy locked his arms around her, pulling her tightly into the protective circle of his devoted love, and pressed his lips to the crown of her hair.

After a silence, she asked: "Is Sir William staying on?"

Percy lifted his head and looked skyward. "Only until Andrew –"

"Andrew!" Marguerite cried, struggling free of Percy's hold. "We should go to him!"

He shook his head. "I've only just left him, Margot. He's – he needs to say goodbye."

"Poor Andrew!" she gasped. "I can't think what I would have done without him and Suzanne, he's been such a true friend; never once has he let me down, or refused my wishes, even when he couldn't have known what action was for the best." Her fingertips slipped limply from her husband's grasp. "He should at least know that I am close, ready to share the burden of losing our Suzanne."

"You can't do that, Margot," Percy murmured. "No-one can, for a time."

She was frowning at him. "How can we possibly let her go?" Turning to stare out across the river, Marguerite started talking, low and calm, as if to herself: "When we were at the convent, in Paris, the sisters would have done anything for Suzanne – because her father was a diplomat and her mother descended from a great family – but she asked for nothing. She was not ignorant of the privilege of her situation, but it embarrassed her to be spoiled and cosseted for money – the other girls would take advantage and misbehave, but not Suzanne." She laughed in her throat. "Oh, we were far from angelic, never believe it, but _I_ was probably the one to lead _Suzanne_ astray – I was older, and there on charity, and if the sisters noticed me at all, it was not to reward me. She was my friend and my protector – if not for her, I would never have had the chance to study in England; Suzanne had the Comte sponsor my voyage, as a companion for his daughter, I think."

Marguerite lowered her burning eyes, before opening her lashes to meet Percy's level gaze. "I thought I had lost her friendship forever – she was sent to be finished at Versailles, I was just about to enter the Comédie – and then of course, Armand decided he was in love with her cousin, Angéle St Cyr ... Suzanne's parents turned against my brother and I, and I knew I would never be allowed to see her again – but fate is never so absolute. I met you, and you returned Suzanne to me. I have never been so ... happy ..."

For the second time on that momentous November evening, Percy's incredible reflexes were put to the test; Marguerite did not faint, but the grief and tension within her suddenly surged to the surface, threatening to overpower her, and she faltered on the uneven riverbank. In an instant, his arms were about her, leading her away from the water's edge; she seemed so weary and fragile, her majestic figure swaddled within the folds of his coat, that Percy feared for her health. When the taut surface of her dazed calm finally seemed to be fracturing, he was almost relieved to see the tears welling in her eyes; her suffering was one of the few weaknesses to ever shatter his natural composure, but it was somehow worse to have her facing the dreadful truth alone.

She hitched in a deep breath, fixing her eyes on the distant illumination of the house. "What does Sir William say it might have been?"

Percy studied her profile, trying to read her feverish stare and the tense muscles in her jaw and neck. "I haven't really spoken with him yet. Benyon took him downstairs to the library, and I barely noticed that he went."

"She's so young," Marguerite complained, disbelieving. "She didn't appear ailing, when we were together in my rooms. We were talking about attending the theatre, and she was looking over my new gowns that arrived today. I've never seen her brighter or more gay, Percy, it can't be that she's –"

He didn't answer straight away. "I wish there was something we could have done."

She glanced at him, returning her eyes to the front before he could meet them. "Saved her, do you mean?"

"Of course."

Did he imagine the sharp twist to her lips, or invent the bitter sigh that escaped them? Perhaps he blamed himself for allowing wife and friend to slip so easily from their lives, when he had snatched so many others – strangers, as Marguerite would have once reminded him – from an undeserved fate in the past, but he felt that, at this moment, there were others who held him responsible, too.

_The Vigil_

The pressure of the oaken floorboards was unrelenting against his grinding knees; his legs and feet had long since gone to sleep in the cold draught circulating under the bed; he had to keep stiffening and arching his spine to relieve the ache that was building in the small of his back; and there was a thunderous, sensitive pain between his temples - but Sir Andrew Ffoulkes felt no discomfort, save the unbearable wrenching in his heart that threatened to burst his chest.

So beautiful. Her hair was in wild disarray, framing her small face with limp curls and flyaway wisps – she would hate that, particularly after the time it took Clothilde to perfect the fashionable arrangement of tight ringlets – and the whispering lustring of her skirts lay in creases all around her. Part of him wanted to smooth back the stray tendrils and arrange her gown, but he didn't; she was beautiful to him even now, appearing playful and childlike in her tousled repose. As he gazed upon her, letting his imagination feed his disbelief as he thought of her in memories, his mood would lift irrationally, only to descend within a heartbeat into a dark jealousy of the past and a hunger for but one hour more of their future. Yet he was not one for fanciful daydreaming, however sweet the sanctuary; her skin was chill to the touch, with a bland complexion that even the candles could not liven, and her breast was still above the lace of her bodice. Wishing and reminiscing were useless, and the suffocating truth of his loss was everywhere about him.

Here with her, living was bearable; but soon her parents and brother would arrive to shed silent tears and grace his Suzanne with a prayer for the dead, morning would bring the hearse to transport her through the country lanes to their own house by the river, and after the movement and the company, he would be alone. He couldn't comprehend the constant, cruel march of time; her death was not merely a private ritual and a public procession, it was the snatching of her presence from his life and he wasn't ready to let her go. At home, her book would still be tucked into the window seat, with a sample of material to mark her page; her gowns, a wave of soft muslins and silks remaining as colourful silhouettes of her petite figure, would drape half-real upon their hangers until Clothilde packed them away; and in the morning room, dawn and dusk would measure the days unheeded, without the mistress of the house to attend to her duties or invite friends to pass the hours together. Here, he had Suzanne, for whatever time was left to him; there, he had nothing.

So short a life, and part of his but for a fraction of her young years. Had he loved her from the first? The enchanted circumstances of their meeting made it seem so, even if his notice and his loyalty had lain elsewhere upon his hasty introduction to Mademoiselle Suzanne de Tournay de Basserive. Afterwards, after Paris, perhaps as suddenly as on the deck of the _Daydream_ but certainly by the time they had reached The Fisherman's Rest, he had known. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had once soberly warned his best friend against marrying too soon, had hoped and loved and won the hand of his own fair bride, and after only two short months of courtship. But he was not Blakeney, and she, a gentle complement to the passion and drive of the former Marguerite St Just; he had not been seeking a wife, it is true, but joining with Suzanne had brought to an end the questing of his youth.

Only with Blakeney had he felt torn between love and duty, his vows and his oath; Suzanne could not and did not challenge his decision to leave her, but still he had seen the distress playing upon her young face, her natural serenity disturbed, and faltered all the same. She had loved him as a brave and noble champion of the innocent, the rescuer of many families like her own who had been driven out of their land by a reversal of tradition and fortune; yet his claim to such devotion had belonged in part to his best friend and chief, Sir Percy Blakeney, and as such he was torn. Had he made her unhappy during their brief union, holding onto the past when he should have been starting anew?


	2. Gathered Pieces

_The Library_

Sir William Vavasour reached for his glass on the small pedestal table beside his chair, and was surprised to find it empty. He didn't usually drink, and believed in warning his patients about mistaking medicinal measures for a dependency upon wines and spirits, but he had only taken one glass of Madeira earlier and then the dram of whisky brought to him by the butler. Why then were his fingers drawn back to the decanter that he was aware of from the corner of his eye?

He sighed, and pushed himself up from the high-backed armchair beside the fireplace. The library was a comfortable room, lit by lamps and the warm glow from the hearth, and Sir William let his eyes stroll around the walls and furniture as he waited for a signal that he was required. The many hundreds of books naturally interested him, but he had already perused the spines of those volumes at eye level, and it didn't seem polite at such a time to pick one off the shelf; nor did he feel that the pages in a book could hold his attention whilst his mind insisted on replaying the evening's tragic conclusion.

_Sir Andrew had been paying dutiful attention as his father's old hunting companion described to him the spa town of Harrogate in the north, but the physician knew better – the poor young man was merely a captive ear, assisting the host in making all of the assembled guests feel welcome. It seemed to Sir William that the brilliant reception rooms of Blakeney Manor, from the obligatory card tables to the orchestra upon their platform, were decorated with parading young men and women in their bright and sumptuous costumes: every snip of conversation overheard was on a fashionable topic; the person beside you might turn out to be a leading figure in politics or a leading light in society. No, a peaceable, aging doctor did not belong in this whirlwind, and Sir Andrew should have been waiting on his tender young wife instead. He smiled as the two of them met eyes across the distance of the room once again._

"_Why don't you go to her, lad?"_

_Sir Andrew's gentle gaze cut back to his guest, and he gave a helpless smile. "Forgive my moment of distraction. You were talking of Bath?" _

"_I was talking too much," Sir William had insisted. "I believe I shall visit the refreshment tables, and then observe the card games in the next room. Your wife will be missing your company."_

_And then the constant chatter that had been filling his ears throughout the evening had suddenly parted around a woman's tearful, abandoned cry: "Suzette!" Sir Andrew had reacted instinctively, his head turning with dozens of others, until his senses told him what was happening and started him towards his wife. Blakeney's call seemed to come almost at the same instant._

He was intruding here, kept on merely in his position as a private man of medicine; and as such, he could do no more for Lady Ffoulkes. An oppressive barrier seemed to divide the house, protecting Sir Percy, his lady, and Sir Andrew from time and action, as well cutting off those who did not share their intimate friendship. A Lord Dewhurst had taken a coach into the city to collect Lady Ffoulkes' parents, and another young man was deputed with arranging a hearse for the morning; the housekeeper had approached Sir William to ask if the laying out would be tonight, but he could not have told her. The duties of death jarred violently in a house still decorated for an evening ball, and nobody seemed ready to face what had happened: Sir Andrew was still with his poor young wife, and Sir William had heard nothing of the host and hostess for some time.

On the chimney breast, practically the only wall that wasn't supporting floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, there hung a striking portrait of Lady Blakeney, and Sir William stepped onto the hearth to better study its detail. It was signed in the lower right-hand corner by Romney, the fading master artist, and depicted the lady of the house in a midnight blue robe, reclining against the arm of a chaise longue with her slender fingers loosely intertwined upon a cushion. Her tempestuous eyes, framed with lowered lashes, looked down upon the viewer, her lips seeming to mock him. Sir William moved back from the fire.

A throat was cleared at the door: "Forgive me, I was looking for Blakeney."

"Wait!" Sir William called to the hastily departing figure. "Have you – I am Sir William Vavasour, a friend of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' father."

"I know who you are," the man answered, pausing over the threshold. "The name's Hastings. Have you seen Blakeney?"

Sir William shook his head, crossing the library so that he did not have to call out to the other man, who was still stood in the open doorway. "There was nothing I could do upstairs, so Sir Percy had the butler show me here to wait."

Hastings, bowing his lightly powdered head, studied his hand upon the door latch. "I'm not at all sure what I'm supposed to do," he admitted. "Lady Ffoulkes' family will be arriving soon, Tony went to collect them. I was told to organise the other guests, but everybody was in such a flurry to get back to town that I was nearly trampled in the exodus. And out by the stables, I suddenly had the idea to ride into Richmond and call on the parish priest, but – what could he do now?"

Sir William met the young man's anxious brown eyes. "I've heard it said that a sudden death is the purest kind, and that there is no need to pave the way of the soul; I am also convinced that Lady Ffoulkes has nothing to atone for."

"Her family are devout Catholics," Lord Hastings responded with a frown.

"Then no doubt her parents will arrange for a service," Sir William agreed. He took another step forwards. "I know the hardest task is oftentimes to wait and only be prepared to act, but time will catch up with us all very soon, and then I am sure Sir Andrew will need every one of his friends."

"What happened to her?" Hastings demanded, slapping his open palm against the door.

"I don't know," was the plain and helpless answer. "Perhaps a weak blood vessel, or her heart. My brother was only thirty when he died, and he suffered tremendously before the end came – I would not wish that on another soul, but I know that Lady Ffoulkes is – was – younger still, and I will also never understand nature's way. I thought medicine was the key, but we know so little of what happens to the body –" He shrugged. "We must not dwell on what cannot be altered, but think how best to aid Sir Andrew, from now on."

"When did your brother die?" Hastings asked quietly.

"Ten years ago." Sir William turned back into the room. "I inherited the house that would have been his," he confessed. "It was too late to save him, but I hoped to learn something during my studies in Edinburgh that might have offered him some respite from his terrible pain. All I could do was return to Weston and nurse him through those last, bitter days."

Resuming his position before the fire, Sir William heard the decanter ring against a glass behind him. "Yet you still practice?" Hastings asked, gasping from the neat whisky.

"I'm still learning," Sir William explained.

The house weighed heavily upon their hearts once again and both men stood silent, hearing the flames in the hearth and a distant step above their heads, but listening for an echo of life now past. Lord Hastings' younger ears were the first to detect the trudging measure of feet upon the terrace beyond the French windows, and he was already advancing towards the desk when Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney appeared at the glass. Startled by the sight of Blakeney in his shirt sleeves and Marguerite wrapped in her husband's coat, Hastings merely threw open the door and stood back to let them in.

"Let Benyon know where we are, Hastings, and fetch a wrap for Margot," Blakeney ordered, and his friend looked to the wilted, frozen woman at his side before slipping hastily from the room.

As Blakeney walked his wife towards the armchair beside the fireplace, Sir William studied her young face with professional concern, noting her trembling chin and the wan complexion of her skin now free from powder and rouge; such a vital difference between the cowed figure before him and the poised, playful woman who surveyed the room from her dais over the fire. As Blakeney settled her into the warm seat, Sir William noted the dirty, tattered stocking that peeped from beneath her sumptuous skirts, and wondered if she realised she had lost a slipper.

"Your hands are like ice," Blakeney told her softly, pressing her slim fingers between his palms. He raised his eyes to the long features and direct gaze of the gentleman doctor: "Would you prescribe a dram of whisky, Sir William?"

"_Aqua vitae_, to give it its original name," he observed, nodding. "It can do no harm, certainly."

As Sir William filled a glass, Hastings re-entered the room with a silk embroidered shawl draped over one arm. Marguerite lifted her burning eyes as he closed the door, seeing her husband's friend without really heeding him, and then stared in pained surprise at the rose-patterned material.

"What are you doing with that?" she demanded, forcing her husband to step back as she suddenly started to her feet, his coat slipping from her shoulders.

Percy and Sir William looked from Marguerite to Hastings, who in turn was glancing uncertainly between the three people standing before him.

"That belongs to Lady Ffoulkes, Hastings," Percy explained. "You weren't to know; I should have rung for Benyon myself, I apologise."

Hastings lowered his eyes to the delicate wrap gathered over his forearm, studying the stitches in the coloured embroidery and the tiny nubs in the weave of yellow silk. Of course this beautiful decoration belonged to Lady Ffoulkes; now that he thought on, he could remember her wearing it. Why hadn't he realised? Not wanting to disturb the complete stillness of the house, he had himself quickly peered into the nearest rooms, and glimpsed the shawl over the back of a chair in a small boudoir; anxious to be of help, he had blindly snatched up the wrap and hurried back to Percy in the library. Yet all that he had brought, he saw now, was further distress to Lady Blakeney, already beside herself with grief, and a physical symbol of the loss they all felt; Suzanne Ffoulkes was no longer here, but he held on his arm the memory of her presence and the light fragrance of her touch.

"Give it to me!" Marguerite snapped, lifting the sodden hem of skirts as she hurried past Sir William, nearly upsetting the golden liquid he was still holding. Hastings tried to seek silent guidance from his friend, but Marguerite reached him before he could make eye contact with Sir Percy, and so he merely held out his arm and let her take the shawl.

"Margot!" Percy called, but she swept out of the room in a wave of silver and burnished gold, leaving only the lingering scent of roses and autumn air for him to follow.

_The Silk Room_

He had known where she was bound for, shawl in hand, as soon as she reached the door. With her long skirts and cold, tired feet, he could have caught and held her two steps into the hall, but he resigned his inhibitions to her instinct and only climbed the great staircase behind her. Wavering a little on the landing, she turned to him, her blue eyes shimmering, and he had taken her hand.

"I can't see her," his wife whispered, spilling her tears as she stole a glance at a closed door across from them. "I can't, Percy!"

"It's as if she might be sleeping," Percy told her, forcing the lie from his lips, relying on her to break the spell.

"And what of Sir Andrew? You told me –"

"It would be insensible to do nought for fear of doing wrong," he added. "Yours is the wisest, warmest heart; I will follow it."

Marguerite gave a small smile, her hand a reassuring presence in his, and together they approached the Silk Room, an indulgence of his father's overlooking the river; she pressed her ear to the panels, and then drew back to scratch gently at the door. They neither expected an answer and did not wait for one, merely sounding their entrance before Marguerite slipped open the latch and stepped into a room that was no longer hers.

The air inside was warm, and yet the current that met them brought only the sharp scent of green kindling on the fire and the dull, fusty undertone of spare rooms in a large house; she had expected to meet the lingering aroma of Suzanne's gentle spirit, as spiralling smoke reaches the nose after a candle has been blown out, but all that came to her was the room itself. Her fingers still intertwined in her husband's strong grasp, Marguerite stepped forward.

There were two ornate glass candelabras at either side of the bed, and Suzanne lay beneath the canopy in the pool of warm, dancing light that had cleared away the shadows. Marguerite sent her eyes about the room, noting the winking reflection of the candle flames upon the dark window panes and the spitting wood in the hearth, even as her memory showed her the painted designs upon the green silk wall hangings that were now masked by the gloom. Every piece of furniture within that exquisite boudoir now seemed to resonate with the pain of lost romance: an ornamental kissing chair that spoke of the love of Sir Algernon Blakeney for his poor young bride; the pristine Venetian glass wash basin and ewer on its cherry wood stand; and a magnificent three-tiered dressing table with a golden-framed mirror, which now beheld the image of a tall, handsome man dressed in blue and gold, kneeling with bowed head beside the fallen form of his beloved. Promises and gestures betrayed by fate.

Before facing her friend, Marguerite crossed to the mirror and, briefly regarding her own searching eyes in the shaded, shifting mask of her face, covered the silver glass according to the custom. She held onto a corner of Suzanne's shawl and brought it to her face, inhaling the embroidered pattern of a rose as if it were a real flower; a trace of lavender, her friend's favourite fragrance, betrayed the illusion and stirred her heart once again.

Percy met her at the foot of the bed, but it was Marguerite alone who approached Sir Andrew. Her eyes drawn to Suzanne's alabaster face and the terrible half-light that seemed to animate her features, she lowered herself onto her knees and lightly touched his arm. He drew in a sharp gasp of air, as if he had forgotten to breathe, and gave her all the bitterness and sorrow in his raw expression.

"What am I to do, Lady Blakeney?" he pleaded hoarsely. "Why must it be my Suzanne?" His proud features began to sag, and he drew Suzanne's skirts into his hands to cover his uncontrollable emotion. Marguerite could only hold him, pressing her tear-stained cheek to his sleeve as he shook with grief.

"Suzette, chérie," Marguerite whispered, and Percy watched as she touched her fingertips to her lips and hesitantly pressed a kiss upon Suzanne's crossed hands.

As he stood beside his wife, Percy struggled to master his own silent anguish; he had the sense that he should be the one to support these two, Ffoulkes and Marguerite, and to make the necessary preparations in behalf of Lady Ffoulkes' family. Whether as host, leader, friend or independent soul, he knew not, but the conviction forced him to swallow his heart as he looked upon Margot's awed sadness and Andrew's desolation.

When he saw that his wife was battling for control of her own feelings, her lips quivering as she drew in a deep breath, his resolution weakened. He had thought that he and she were practiced in private strength and the loss it fed upon, but perhaps their union had weakened them – had they become so secure in their happiness, in their triumph against the odds, that they might have unconsciously lowered the natural defences of children without parents, of lonely souls who find it hard to trust? And apart from her brother Armand, Suzanne de Tournay had been the only other constancy in Marguerite's early life, her childhood friend and companion in a foreign land; it was not weakness of spirit that numbed her senses, but the rending of her heart. Orphaned as a young child, the loss of her Suzanne now had disturbed an old foreboding, as well as dealing a blow that had finally shattered her happiness.

Percy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Ffoulkes," he started, adding: "Andrew."

Sir Andrew spoke, but did not uncover his face. "Yes."

"Shall I ring for Mrs Horton?"

"Why?" Marguerite asked for him, turning up her fluid blue gaze to her husband.

Percy found he couldn't suggest what had to be done, and shook his head. Lady Ffoulkes upon the bed, her chestnut hair tumbling across a pillow and the rose gown she wore by far the brightest detail, and his Marguerite wilting like a cut lily as she kept vigil beside her, would have tested the mettle of any man, and in this room, on this night, he had never faced such a strain.

"If you will both excuse me," he murmured, lightly caressing Marguerite's hair, "I shall wait downstairs for the arrival of the Comte and Comtesse." She nodded wearily.

"Blakeney!" Sir Andrew called, his broken voice muffled by his hands. Percy turned at the foot of the bed and met his friend's bleary eyes. "When they arrive – I want to speak with them first, before they see her." He sighed, and looked at Suzanne. "To beg their forgiveness."

Marguerite gasped. "Sir Andrew, no!"

"I failed them, Lady Blakeney!" he insisted, slumping back against the cabinet. The crystal candelabra behind him jingled and sent shadows fleeing across the bed. "I wasn't even there to hold her. They gave me their daughter, and I betrayed my assurance to them."

"You have broken no promises, Ffoulkes," Percy told him firmly.

"_Mon dieu_, but of course not!" Marguerite cried, pushing to her feet now that she could no longer reach Sir Andrew. "I cannot hear of my dearest friend punishing himself so for what is beyond all earthly beings!" She twisted sharply to Percy. "Nor my husband! The League rescued Suzanne and her family from a fate shared by too many of their kind, and I know the de Tournays will always be grateful – but you cannot defend against every cruel trick of time and nature ... You cannot!"

She shattered in the resounding silence of the room, her breath caught in a sob until she sank, bowed in agony, against Percy's outstretched arms. He drew her up against him and felt her gripping the ties of his waistcoat as she tried to stifle her cries. Sir Andrew silently rose from the floor and stood by, too deadened by his own loss to comprehend another's.

_Alone_

In the muted light of early dawn, Marguerite Blakeney gazed out across the grounds towards the mist-laden river. She sat with her legs curled up beneath her, a woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, resting her head against the wooden panels of the window embrasure. Her tender eyelids were heavy with fatigue, and she shifted uncomfortably within the confines of her formal raiment; the mere thought of movement, of a normal routine, turned her limbs leaden and set her heart rapping against her breast.

"Have you been able to rest?"

Marguerite gave a start, and turned her head against the window. Percy was beside her, kneeling at her feet; she had not even heard him enter the room. He met her eyes, and the obvious distress in his caring gaze stirred her from her torpor.

"I sat upon the bed, but I knew that I would not sleep," she lied, conciliatory; she had gone straight to the window seat upon reaching her chamber, dismissing even her maid's thoughtful attendance in order to be alone with her sadness. "Has everybody gone?"

Percy rose up and sought her hands beneath the woollen wrap. "The Comte and Comtesse did not wish to stay on; Hastings volunteered to drive them to Andrew's house, but they meant to return to London first, and so Tony took them. He asked if he should bring Lady Dewhurst back with him – I said of course." He paused, waiting for a response, but Marguerite remained silent. "Glynde and Mackenzie have been, but did not stay; Sir William left with them for the city."

"He has been very kind," she sighed, "though he was as helpless as the rest of us. Will we see him again?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Of course – he is a friend of Sir Andrew's father."

"Margot, please try to rest for a while," Percy implored, perching against her legs on the edge of the cushion. With the lightest of caresses, he brushed away a stray tendril of golden hair, leaving his fingers upon her face. "Shall I stay with you?"

He drew her to him, unfastening the remaining pins in her hair with a practiced hand, and supported her as she rose stiffly from her silent refuge. Though he knew her feet would be tired and her legs aching, he fought the instinct to lift her into his arms, letting her lean upon him as he had once rested his head against her shoulder; she seemed to prefer it. He swept aside the curtain and she sat heavily upon the edge of the bed.

"I am tired," she admitted, absently coiling her loose curls into a braid over one shoulder. Percy stooped to raise her stocking feet onto the bed, and saw that the sole of one was soiled and ragged.

"Let me help you," he offered, after a pause.

They lay upon the counterpane together, his body turned to shield her from the rising winter sun. As they huddled in each other's arms, listening to their own breathing, Marguerite remained awake; Percy could almost chart her thoughts by the fleeting clouds of emotion in her wide open gaze. He held her, now and then pressing kisses into her hair, and eventually she gave in to a troubled sleep. She was so real in his arms, a comforting presence; with her face turned towards his and their fingers linked between them, he felt he could allow himself the practical necessity of a brief rest.

The de Tournays had swept through the house in a dignified procession of familial mourning, kneeling in prayer with a priest fetched from the community of émigrés in the city; even Alexandre, the young Vicomte, had stirred from one of his blustering French clubs to attend his sister. One or two members of the League not present for Lady Blakeney's soiree had arrived at Blakeney Manor to express their sympathies and offer their assistance. Sir Andrew was not disturbed by any of them; his sombre reverie was like a blanket that dampened his senses and protected his fragile heart.

The candles guttered and finally swallowed their own flames, but by that time grey daylight was creeping into the room where he sat in vigil beside his Suzanne.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, his legs stiff and cold from so long kneeling on the floor, sank into one side of the padded kissing chair at the foot of the bed. His aching eyes pored over Suzanne's neat, tranquil form upon the counterpane, and then closed as fresh tears began to prick at his eyelids.


End file.
